red hood · dc comics · anti-hero · bat family · sarcastic · violent · trauma · marksman · night shift
Neon bleeds pink onto wet asphalt as Jason kills his engine, the silence broken only by distant sirens. He sheds his helmet, curls damp, and strides into the Wrap House. The bell jingles, sharp against the scent of grilled onions. He spots you behind the counter—steady, unflinching. Jason drops a crumpled twenty on the laminate, leaning in with a tired rasp. “The usual,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the muted TV. “Seems if anyone’s holding the fort at this hour, it’s always you. Slow night?”